today is the day… costumes and candy and all such crap connected… oh my… survival in bat country is to a degree perilous, to be sure, but rather annoyingly introspective… though maybe that is what older life is all about… the clattering of treats is threatening to make this a good weekend after all… pumpkin carving might be a good idea tonight with pizza… random real world interlude, there, I suppose… listen to the nightmare gothic Halloween mix as well… didn’t bring it to work, though, and I seriously doubt that I could manage to get ahold of it before the end of the day… gotta go to Radio Shack after work, but had a decent fast food lunch… there are few things that inspire hostility like closed-minded minions who think they know the world… distraction is the name …
it is difficult to say that I might be overly wordy, but I digress to speaking of fellows like HP Lovecraft and the like-minded of a certain verbal sculpture. where poem and prose lose touch with reality, and combine altogether into a mix of parts anecdote to antidote, call it all about being there in the moment. the discovery of unreal ordeals and how they strain against our reality Here into the middle of nowhere in particular. we lose touch with awareness at times, with the best of intents to cherish the present, and forget the most important details of the real point. the ironic chance idea to take over the world before you are dead. only the human animal could give such harrowing tales of incredible whim. the document of life living is witness in the movement all …
wired into the feeding mind, we grow weary like cattle, the societal umbilicus is our meat and our bread and butter all in one horribly convenient package… for a packaged age, sealed in plastic with our best intentions in mind, and the plastic becomes part of our bodies… the hearts of animals no longer replacing the hearts of mankind… soon you’ll be able to be attached to your computer, and then you will never escape an internet between the information Here and that which is there, the virtual will be connected to your head but I don’t know if you’ll appreciate it… where does the rebellious sensation to just disengage come to be real?… is it real for every body?… like some great circuit, perhaps the circuit of god, but no matter as we face an equally intense horizon …
“Any work of art that can be understood is the product of journalism.”
~ Tristan Tzara; writer, poet, artist, Dada innovator.
“The music business is a cruel and shallow money trench, a long plastic hallway where thieves and pimps run free, and good men die like dogs. There’s also a negative side.”
~ Hunter S. Thompson on the music industry.
Nine times…nines times, I have fought for these threads. the clerk nodded, absentmindedly.
seemed to agree with every word I said at-large. clearing his throat, he calmly replied cautiously.
What trouble would you have, sir? my defiant stand made him quite clearly affected, a silent stand.
the lone vagrant diatribe cautiously relents into the darkness of his forgotten intellect, a swine standing. there where a man just stood, relenting against a painful system infecting him. his twisting made leaps into the insecure nature of impact, as the crutches fell away to the floor, and he faced thunderous approach into a concrete surface. the flames ignited through a human anger flew and spewed to the floor. the scream at the end left no doubt at the intrigue in the wake of the apparent. Did you like that, cripple? he was not afraid to …
nihilistic tendencies aside, we have way too much to read and absorb out there to give lick one about critical praise or bullshit that takes away from any real issues, and there are few things that I enjoy about these distracting forces-that-be… these ideas are all too-powerful for most of us with simple minds to handle on our own, and the forces of distraction make it so much more likely that we pay for our mistakes with more than a slap to the wrist… These ideas make us slit that wrist by risking our self-esteem and our accountability as human beings in order that we have to choose sides to fight for and against as incredibly ridiculous as the need may seem… the propaganda machine is always at work like a corporate virus or bacteria bending the wills of …
the music makes some men weep and a few others swagger when the pulse of the unbridled reached their ears. the catatonic stares of the tone-deaf were all but too-quick to point out the problem with music’s champion potentials, and now even the most ardent capitalist is trying his damnedest to make the radio seem like the same-as-it-ever-was playground that it never was. things need to be taken out of the context of bureaucracy, and put into the hands of the disparate squads of youth in abandon, the rightful heirs to a musical responsibility. Here there is no end of successors to the throne, as it might be perceived by passers-by, but there are no kings and queens anymore. the substantial emissions of true progenitors and innovators seems to decrease at an alarming rate as the crap rolls down …
an artistic interpretation of one boy’s life as he grows up to discover that there is no such thing as manhood, and the adult responses he has come to dislike will eventually become his own.
a hardy stock absence fills me, rejecting the opinions of classified truths day to day, and creating a submissive potency that puts other personalities at a faulted stance… can we escape this urge with a doctor’s care?… what questions these humans be… with their sadomasochistic ways of pronouncing themselves villains and eliminating themselves by leaps and bounds through time and space exquisite… the sludge is probably running through my veins as I speak this, but how we care not for this fettered existence… there are problems, no doubt, but I choose not to pursue their validity any further than I can throw myself into the fray of boredom or engorged egotism… where I twist and spent wishes make their sounds heard, the sudden dark of heart makes the deadened seem wizened through misled youth, and this is the unfounded …
